You Promised
by D. Lavisher
Summary: “Satine, but I’m the one with the ridiculous obsession with love, not you you can’t choose the one you truly love—I can.”and when Christian does, it'll take more than pretty words to fight for Satine.
1. You promised

Hey, people...this is my first fic on the moulin rouge i hope it turns out different to all the others--and i hope ya'll like it of course.

In this fic, Christian will actually FIGHT for Satine

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"You promised," she gently nuzzled up against my shoulder. "You promised—that you wouldn't. be. Jealous."

I swallowed hard and my hold around her back tightened. When have I ever made such an unpromising contract with her? She knew that our relationship were much more than that of a deal. What is there to bargain for when one doesn't even know the original cost of love?

Yes, love. Above all things, love. And at this very moment, the thing that I needed the most—was love.

Yet I had to pretend.

The Moulin Rouge: a fantasy universe filled with an ever-lasting string of nighttime pleasures. I came a long way for Paris; And out of all the places, I chose the most innocence-consuming black hole as the inspiration for my endless desire of love.

I swallowed. What can I say? I'm the one who—so whole-heartedly— believed in truth, beauty, freedom and love. The value of love—that's what I think is most worthy of. But this is the wrong place to look for a gullible fantasy. Here, tricks jested by the creatures of the underworld works far more efficient than those words of mine. The songs that I sang, which once brought a spark of beauty in her eyes, were unsung for such a long time that I almost lost track of its perfect tune. And I guess I'll never find them again.

"I lied." I swallowed again. It was as if I could barely raise my voice above a whisper. It was that hard. "I'm jealous." I trembled. "Yes, I promised," She sighed a desperate sigh, and I felt my heart about to burst with the same reverberating despair. "Satine, but _I'm_ the one with the _ridiculous_ obsession with love, not you; you can't choose the one you truly love—I can." I took a deep breath and I drew away from her, my hand still on her shoulder.

The slanting rays of the overcast sunset were those of my words, those bloody, testifying last resorts I have, which are here and here for only one reason: to see if she really cares about love.

It's not about me, no. But it's about the duke. I don't care about the duke and nor does Satine. Yet Zidler does. Harold Zidler is the one that made the duke's existence an unyielding gloom over both me and Satine. I never saw him square on—not until just now. I haven't cared about his simple existence, until the moment when Satine had gone down the stairs a minute ago, to agree to sleep with him.

The thought itself was painful. Utterly painful to the guts that no words in my once carefree world have ever had the vocabulary to describe the tearing and shattering of my whole being.

"What do you mean? Christian," her eyes swept over me and pinned down on the floor on the left side, landing on the wooden floor, the way it swept every time she hears something that she doesn't want to and wants to turn her back on it.

"Look at me, _Satine,_" my voice was hoarse with plea. "Tell me that you won't give in to the duke, Satine--" I made her face me with my own, trembling grasp. "I didn't do anything for you except…" I gasped for breath as I looked up and my gaze met hers square-on, "_…for letting my stupid imagination run away with me…_"

"Oh, Christian—that wasn't what I meant to say, you…"

_Shush--_"I know, _I know, _Satine; but what _I_ meant to say is that _I'm going to fight for you for real_. I am to hold a duel with him. I told him about it--"


	2. songs of a nightingale

Disclaimer: I own nothing of the Moulin Rouge, the big wheel that sweeps my imagination thus far belongs to the Great city of romance--Paris…and the wonderful characters which brought this story to life, ALONE.

Muskoka Girl: It's very encouraging to see you come up first in the review's section, thx for your praise I'm flattered--it's amazing how a crazy imagination can just flash through my mind and take me over for the story to start in the first place.

hanakinstarbuck: wow! I didn't expect anyone to be so excited about my story…but since you're so eager for more…well, I guess that's one of the reasons for me to update, isn't it!

gizmowillowbuffy: mmm…a CAP-SIZED review always leaves me breathless (coz I often do that when I spot smth REALLY good), anyway, I'm glad you like it. Christian's character has been in my mind for a good long time and I've had the pleasure of imagining him as a much stronger character than the original story allows, so yea it's quite where I'm working on.

Eternal Soldier: Thx a lot, see I've updated r8t after spotting your review! I hope you like it! It might be a bit sad but I'll see how it turns out… ENJOY!

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Saltine's POV:

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I trace my fingers up and down the prickly spine of a wilting rose, and savor the dying rays of the setting sun as I perch in front of the nightingale's cage, all alone. The rose I picked from a vase at one of the tables up at the bordello, a place where I don't often visit…but now is a time to catch up with the infamous conception of wasting one's life on something worthwhile before you fade away into nothingness.

I very much feel like prodding the rose into the innocent bird's cage for her to feel the sting of its thorn. Just a little jab wouldn't hurt much, I guess. I held out my rose and felt a precarious current shifting somewhere down my throat. The bird perched behind the line of thin bars, waiting for something to happen…and suddenly, I found myself raising my voice. A trail of notes, which had been in my head for some time since god knows when, found its way out after all this time.

"Suddenly the world seems such a perfect place…suddenly it moves,"

I stood up and drop the rose on the floor, and continue, "…with such a perfect--grace." I sighed and looked out of the small window at the edge of the dark, narrow corridor. The whiff of stiff curtains and unkempt furniture urges me to seek for fresher air. I turned around and started down the deserted passage.

"Hmm…" I closed my eyes as a current rushed silently onto my powdered cheeks when I managed to shove the poor, old wooden frames of the tiny window open. "Suddenly my life doesn't seem--such a waste; it all revolves around…" I stopped short as a precarious weight shifted up and down somewhere down my throat. My melody dies, and I quickly covered my mouth. The smooth current that brushed up to my neck is suddenly too sharp for the skin, and I hastily made sure that it was shut for what was to come.

A terrible gasp leaves me as I shudder, trying to minimize the effect of coughing against my lungs. But the pressure of my whole diaphragm squeezing in so tight is so unbearable, that I begin to wail. My other hand made for the wall and I turned to face the dark, dusty corridor again, as the peeling paint coming off the walls sticks unto my sweaty palm. The dizziness sweeps into me and I went down onto the floor.

Sitting there, coughing, gasping…I don't know how long it took for my senses to come back to me. When once in a while I looked up to the ceiling, I could almost swear that there was Satan itself looking down upon me, jeering at its most amusing, self-plotted 'Show of the Evening'. After all, I do have something in common with the term of the devil itself, my name being Satine, the two syllables stretching a word nearly identical to that of 'Satan'.

I sighed as the coughing stopped, just as abruptly as it took over me some while ago. "Oh…" I smiled to myself, as I always do when this stupid, occasional sickness takes over me on the stage, while millions are there to witness. "…This is so not worth furrowing your brows over with, Satine…oh, Satine, you fool…" And again, the word _Satan_ rings a bell somewhere back in my head.

I stood up again, surprised somehow at why there is no one to hold me like the madams of this often fully-filled place did from time to time. But then again, nothing works like the way Christians presence does.

Walking back to where the cage lies is a long way. My foot seems a bit too heavy to walk forward. But above all this, the most hunting factor that leaves me sleepless in the nights, especially those after I've met Christian, comes alas. As I leant down to pick up the rose, the last acidic, burning pulse picks its way up my esophagus and I felt it rush out with my sudden explosion of coughing. It took on, once again, for a minute or so…and I used the back of my hand to wipe it off--the trace of blood. I haven't heard anyone tell me of it just yet, but I know: I am very sick.


	3. I've Nothing To Lose

_"It's not that I don't have faith in you, but...he just isn't that kind of a man. I...I mean, when it comes to this, he wouldn't care less whether his actions are knightly or noble or...or whatever you call it."_

_Christian looked out of the window, and said, "It's the only chance I've got."_

_And I won't mention about simply running away with him again, when chances may be that escaping is as risky as holding a duel with that maniac of a duke. I was worried and now I still am._

_"Will it sound more knightlyfor him or for you?" It was an ominous feeling that leapt at me before I said this. The unutterable sensation that if this is the only chance we've got and he has to risk his life to it, then it might be better if none of this was planned in the first place. I tried to make myself sound impartial, to make him realise what consequences his understatement for the word "knightly" may lead to. And this adversary will not be just anybody, but the cruel, heartless Duke._

I instantly regretted saying this, and felt an acidic lump swelling in my throat, the extended stinging sensation pouring into my eyes. I looked down as a drop of tear fell, despite my effort to hold it back, onto my lips. The brackish liquid tasted intensely bitter, and I bit my lips for my bluntness. Why is it that I always hurt him, when my intention was the exact opposite?

_He turned and looked at me, his eyes fixed adamantly on mine. Then, with a voice as fierce as fire, he said, "For both." His tone then softened as he held my hands in his warm, confident grasp._

_"Don't worry; don't worry about me, Satine...I know what I'm doing."_

_"Oh," I sobbed into his arms, "I'm so sorry, Christian, that wasn't what I meant to say. I just...I'm so confused, there's no way out...and you...you're so _naive_; you don't know what it's like when he's going to do things you gentlemanly writers could never have imagined, and...and..." I cried uncontrollably. My whole body shook with an unknown rage that I've held in for too long. Now it's flooding over me. Why is it that everything has to go against us?_

_And while I complained about all the unfairness that came to my mind at the moment, all I could hear Christian whispering into my ear was _'It's okay, it's alright, don't worry, I've got nothing to lose except you...Satine...'--_And that's when my tears froze up._

_I continued to cry, but my heart skipped a beat, which I know has nothing to do with the sobbing and the jerks that followed suit._

_I continued to cry, for it'd be best if I show my concerns for him rather than acknowledging my worst, worst fear._

_Yes, now I know what I've been afraid of all this time. Every time I stare into the mirror with the reflection of a pale visage and a trickle of blood beside my rosy lips. The antithesis of life and death were that simple and obvious that I could not have missed it. Not that I don't have faith in him or that I give a damn about the Duke and all the risks, for I have already jumped into the flames when I first told Christian that I'd love him until the end of time. And now it's swallowing me up, the fire engulfing me, asking me to pay the price. All my life I have been loved by men whom I don't care one bit about, for they've paid their pains--but I have never loved them back. Now it's my turn to pay the price, and there would be no bargaining._

_What I lack, I finally know now, is the faith within myself. Would I last? Would I live long enough to stay beside him?_ Yes, Christian, you've got me here and now; but what about tomorrow? And the day after that?

_However, as Zidler have always bragged: "My little sparrow is going to be a REAL actress!" I acted out the only portions I wanted my audience to see. In this case--the man I love. And while my tears dried up and my sobs turned calm in his protective hold, the part of me that screamed for his forgiveness inside swore in its own, terse voice: that something will be done before my dying day._

_

* * *

"The Duke?" the maid questioned inquiringly, while fastening my corset with unnecessary strength._

I smiled. "Yes, tell him that I have something to discuss with him about the show."

"The show? But I thought Mister Zidler had it all handled, hasn't he?"

"Oh!" I looked up. If there were any signs of me being alarmed, then I certainly have shown none. The reflection in front of me spelt of a business-like manner. "Zidler doesn't need to be informed about this," I turned slightly, my hand waving in casual unconcern for her nosiness, "he's already having his hands full without us making additional meetings, let alone arrange them. You _could_ fix it alright? Or should I be at it myself… hmm?"

"Of course," she finished with the fastening, leaving me gasping, choking for breaths of air on the inside, though my smile never faltered to deceive.

"Everything will be scheduled immediately for the meeting tonight at the tower, Mademoiselle Satine."

I straightened up. "Very well."


	4. My Cobalt Wine

Disclaimer: I own nothing of the Moulin Rouge, the big wheel that sweeps my imagination thus far belongs to the Great city of romance--Paris…and the wonderful characters which brought this story to life, ALONE.

Pamperedwitch: Thank you for the brief analyses on my second chapter. I think I've met you somewhere before, did I? lol it took me some time to form style but I don't think it's that good yet myself. I'll bear that in mind though…

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The room was unexpectedly cold. The flames in the hearth cackled, and I simply stared into the fire for some while before feeling something brushing up against my shoulder. The Duke.

The thin sheet of silk did nothing to stop the shock from going through my body. For a moment I felt myself shudder. My stomach churned with unease as I turned to face him.

"I didn't know you were so keen, so eager to see me…" he growled in what was supposed to be a low, seductive tone.

I must've smiled an amazingly convincing smile, I realized, when his pupils zeroed-in on me. I didn't know what expression I wore, or how the slanting shadows across my paled face made me look, for my senses were numb. But I knew I could manage, and I did.

"Oh, but I do," I looked down and swallowed. Despite the invitation from me, the Duke has preferred a "more convenient setting" for our meeting. I did my share of interpreting what was going on in his mind, and chose a "more convenient" dress for tonight. Dashed in a fine, violet gown made of the smoothest of silk, I practically floated into this room of his.

But the cold is starting to seep in, and I berated myself for the uncontrollable shivering on my part. This was the not part of the plan.

"The opening night will be a spectacle, my dear Duke," I chuckled and lifted my gaze. "And you are the one who made my dreams come true," my arm slithered unto his back and pressed him ever so slightly, enough to trigger his lust.

He inhaled sharply and held me back. Bedizen in rich garments, the Duke's cologne also smelt like heavy absinthe to me rather than nice aroma. He took a sniff in my hair and uttered something I didn't care to listen to.

"Hmm…it's a little funny…" I chuckled. Is it just me, or had the Duke held a disturbing habit of conspicuous trembling when nervous? My hold around him stiffened. What came next roused my rage.

He took the pleasure in finishing off my sentence: "…this feeling inside…", and I cussed under my breath on hearing Christian's words being said from another person. It sounded hollow and distant, but the words resonated in my head all the same. I can almost feel the notes of the melody twisting to transform into Christian's gravitating voice.

My gaze must have drifted and I pulled away somehow.

"What's wrong, Sat--?" Oh, now he's calling me by the name. I cut him off with a dismissal wave, laughing, and my voice whimsical, I said, "it's a bit cold, don't you think? I need some champagne to warm me up."

"Oh, well, I'll call for it--"

"It's alright," I lifted one brow and whispered, low, "there's no need for you to warm up _here_; I'll get the wine, and you just wait…" I pointed towards the grand-sized four-poster mattress with my chin, "…there," I demanded.

And there goes, he whisked himself away without so much as a tempted face and an excited grunt onto the bed. He obeyed like a dog.

"Good boy," it was my turn to growl, "wait 'til I coma back," I sounded evil with my voice so low, and perhaps I've meant it to be so--"We'll have some _business_ to talk about, _don't we? Hmm?_" Apparently, he had developed a craving for being growled at, and practically shooed me away, urging me to come back as soon as possible.

My tinkling laughter waned amongst shutting the bedroom door behind me. It clicked upon being closed, and my smile died right there, the muscles along my cheek tense and resigned.

The dining room in which the wines were held wasn't far away. I made a brief entrance, scanning for two glasses and a good, strong wine. I was quick, and I ended up with the cork opened in no time. The Duke had obviously been working with atmospheres over here. His talent within the dining region was much better than that in the bedroom. It was shining plates, flora tastes significant upon the lovely fragrance from the beautiful roses, set on the dining table, polished from top to bottom. I take it that this is as far as his better talents could go, at the end of the day.

I smiled as I floated back towards the room with two shining, crimson glass of ecstasy in my grasp.

There was something which stretched my delicious smile just that bit further as I set down one of the glass on a small stool, before reaching out my spare hand to open the door. The Duke's manservant, Warner, I was aware, was standing guard outside the building tonight. _"No entrance until I call!" _was the yell from the Duke, I guess.A sparkling, cobalt gemstone, set on top of the ring on my index finger, reflected one of its cold, scattered rays into my eyes as the door clicked open and I danced, nearly on tip-toe, into the room.

* * *

"My dearest Satine, how kind of you," The Duke took a swig of his wine and made sure a lock of hair fell in the way to help him look better. In any case, it did ameliorate my better understanding of what a vain sex-maniac he is.

I continued to smile.

Sipping my share, I caught a glance of a cobalt-hued mixture swirling in his glass. It was all dissolved by now, so it may just be my imagination. But whatever; I was glad how this is all working out.

He must've caught me at one point or the other, and I hated myself for being so impatient, but ah…

"What're you smirking at, you…you…oh you are such an evil, tempting courtesan…" he smirked, like a drooling bull, and leapt over, landing on top of me.

"Now you're all mine," he growled.

I giggled and clawed at his collar, "Well, that depends on how much you're willing to _invest…_?"

"I'm afraid that all those fresh notes under this very--" and he grabbed me firm by the hands and drew closer, "--mattress, would quite fill the bill, eh?"

Suddenly, as I smiled up at him, his eyes began to for and his attention was quite averted now. He probably took it as a symptom from being over-excited that he has managed to doze off, well, slightly.

"Oh, really…?" I responded, grabbing him closer, and--_thrusting him to my side._

He had not had a chance to reply, but closed his eyes, lost his balance, and toppled to the other side of the bed, landing with a squeaky _THUMP!_

I lay there, quietly, for two or three minutes, it could even be two or three hours, I couldn't tell the difference, for I was amazed at the drug's miraculous effect on him. I made sure that the Duke was in heavy sleep by now, and silently kissed the ring on my right hand. On receiving the weight, it gave out a small _click!_ And opened up, revealing what was left of the portion of drugs I prepared beforehand.

I rolled over, on top of my victim, and smiled. This time, it was a true, glad-hearted smile.

"Why, thank you, so, very _much._" I stared long and hard at his face, which showed nothing but mere blankness, and turned away to begin my mission.

I got up and smoothed my silk gown by the place where the Duke got me. I was supposed to be guilty for doing this without Christian knowing.

My, the jealousy caused by the first bit of my act would have driven him somewhere in between rage and idiosyncrasy. But I take it that this is going to turn out alright for the both of us.

Especially the next bit that I'm up to.


	5. Of Viking Blood

Disclaimer: I own nothing of the Moulin Rouge, the big wheel that sweeps my imagination thus far belongs to the Great city of romance--Paris…and the wonderful characters which brought this story to life, ALONE.

Pamperedwitch: Yup the duke sure does deserve the drugs…and you lot of my dearest readers deserves the next chappy! HOORAY! lol I split this chapter in days and finally finished (hope u'll like it, lots of building-up-of-atmospheres to do)…glad to see you again, too!

The Sugarfaerie: Minor characters? I love it when ppl notice the minor characters too, I mean they really do bring about a big space for developing fanfics! But for this one, I'm still staying with Christian and Satine! i.e. can't do without Christian (love-love-love-love ewan) but that's not the point. Thank you for leaving a message, I find it surprising that everyone loves chapter two so much! You guys really fascinate me by the way you think!

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Christian struggled to keep a keen sight of the path ahead. It was the midst of November, and the vision is as clogged as it is without the unnerving mist. Leaves crushed beneath his determined steps, and an aura of foreboding surrounded him, as the woods, shrouded within a dark and unfathomable night, hovered sinisterly above his head. Without its leaves, the fatigued branches swayed in a hollow, puppet-like way, the gesture no longer a welcoming sign to visitors along the route towards a deserted site, as Christian imagined it might once have been in the summer. He pulled out one hand from his cloak, white and numb in the winter-chill, and smoothed back his damp and untidy hair. There came the unsettling moonlight, its shattered and somewhat distorted silhouette prancing like goblins upon the dark lane before their unexpected intruder.

Christian paused to check the way. Indeed, there was only one road leading into the woods, as he and the Duke have acknowledged.

"The further away from the Moulin Rouge, the better," the Duke had said.

"_The further away from_ Satine_, the better_,"Christian muttered as he stared fixedly ahead. He would never want Satine to be involved in any of this.

The Duke's voice resonated in his head, chanted like a mantra._ You should see the site for yourself; monsieur Christian, it was once a famous church where the crusades swore their holy cause upon. A few, in fact, were buried there in deference of their own request. A sacred place for such an event, don't you think? Either you shed blood upon some place that shares the same cause for your existence, that holy name of yours; or I shall yield myself on the floors of a noble place--a chapel which is commensurate to my status._

The Duke was suddenly disturbingly good with words when it came to this. It isn't atypical, man to man, the blade-crossing; it was all but too familiar with these in France. What was it that Satine once took as a favorite aphorism?--_The French are glad to die…for love; they delight in fighting duels--_…

Christian reached for the glinting hilt tied to his belt at the thought of Satine.

The shimmering blade beneath it had not been touched for a year at least. Last time he drew it, it was for a match against his own townsfolk who happened to be tavern owners--the result of a very troublesome quarrel over who should have the right to slay the town-drunk who owe both sides an innumerable amount of debt. Christian grinned at the memory. He had challenged to fight them for alleviation of the man's penalty. There was only one standard of justice where governing ceases to reign and it is none other than a fair duel. In the end, Christian was glad that they came to the conclusion that the town-drunk should be saved of death and punished instead by investing some extreme-labor for both taverns. He swore upon his _last_ bottle of root beer since, that he would never touch alcohol again. The alcoholic transformed into a peaceful man, turning stunningly wise albeit his stinking reputation, generating a miracle in Christian's hometown.

But that was just a match, after all. Nothing like what Christian would face tonight.

He walked on, scanning the forest cautiously. With each step he took, he sensed more of a growing awareness. His grasp around the hilt tightened once more, and immediately felt heartened by the touch of it, even if it was the slightest.

_This is no ordinary sword_. _It's a_ _Viking Blade_. The double twisted and folded back chevron twist bears evidence to the fact that the sword smith did this for function but were aware of the inherent beauty in the finished product, as well as the use of acids to bring out the beauty in the grains. A high carbon outer wrap made a hard cutting edge possible. This legendary battle-ray was a priceless inheritance in the family.

_His ancestors were of Viking blood,_ people who were famous for their impenetrable ability to hunt down whatever their will marked upon. Sailing the seas with their elongated pride, those Vikings were adroit with piracy, and their thick reputation for firm and invincible fighting skills spread even wider with every inch of new-exploited territory. Christian never knew how much of these Viking blood ran in him, except the ineradicable evidence of that of a slight, strange curve trimming the side of his lower jaw, which smeared an indescribable tinge of toughness on his appearance. Of course, it wasn't a significant element, for he had developed the habit of tightening his jaw so that the curve did not appear so often nowadays. But when he does get severe, the trait of such Viking brusqueness could become unexpectedly remarkable. Satine had only seen it once, when Christian told her that he was not planning on changing his decision with this duel.

The blood channel that went with the serpentine blade has been lubricated by many deaths prior tonight. These stains were wiped away constantly, for the blade should always be prepared for the important duels or battles that may always be around the corner--_a habit passed on from the elderly in the family_. Christian felt the load of the sword weighing against his limbs. It isn't a foreign sensation. He had used the blade many times before. Before deciding to become a writer, Christian had always dreamt of becoming a fitting dueler, his fascination for mastering blades driving his motivation until the point when his mother passed away, leaving behind the yearning to know that her son could become more than a sword dealer.

Christian knew he was more than that. He found the touch of the blades mesmerizing since he was a child, and the finessing of techniques helped him grow. It comforted him to know that a sword's mass was weighing on him, and it gave him strength when he saw the beauty in its white, iridescent light within its every swipe.

Writing was a thing that he couldn't put down. But when it came to swords, it was a solid craving, something real in his grasp. And he had the ability to give it life.

It isn't so far from the chapel anymore. The path became more distinct as Christian neared his destination. Once he thought that the apex was just a mere delusion in the fog, but as he checked and moved closer, the chapel came into view.

It was not a pleasant sight. Many of the old boulders had fallen from the structure, leaving the crevices above wider than ever. Some parts of its structure have been dismembered near an unrecognizable state, not mentioning the ruins left behind. Lit by the dim moonlight, the damaged chapel hardly seemed a holy site at all. Christian stared at the incomplete frame of the site and wondered whether this chapel was originally found on top of some other ruins itself. It seemed ridiculous to hold a duel at such a place. There is no chance of getting proper luminosity in such battle grounds. Christian felt his grip tighten around the sword once again, firm and indomitable in a way that he was sure to draw it out at any moment.

But there was one thing left.

Christian scowled at the pain in waiting. Waiting for an enemy to appear is nothing like awaiting the muse for a piece of writing. The urge is far too strong

The Duke never mentioned _where_ in this place he would show up at.

Christian grazed his teeth in sheer agitation, his fingers stroking the hilt softly, like a leopard pawing the ground before its deadly pounce. Then, as swift as lightning, the blade slid out of its shelter, accompanied by a faint but breath-taking whisper. It was difficult to place the pitch of the note; not too high, but neither was it a notch lower than the bells in the Notre Dame. It was a gentle hum, joined by a beautiful timbre as it flexed at the end of its owner's hand. It was a metal's true song, unsung for quite a long time.

Christian looked down at the blade in his hold--a creature reflecting twice the flush of the moon above. He thought, right at that moment, that he could feel the current being breathed from the chapel ahead. Suddenly, a troubling aura dawned upon him. It was brief and silent, as if the moment had been dragged and extended into a century. Christian looked up, the nagging sensation condensing in his chest. The darkened evening did nothing to help with the vision. Night was never a good companion. It kept him awake and yet never allows him to see a thing. In fact, Christian ended up getting hallucinations with all sorts of distorted forms waking up inside the chapel, shaking off the dusts, hovering about the balustrade, pointing an accusing finger at the source which disturbed their slumber. One of them, Christian imagined, was even darker than night itself; that its hooded form, the profile of a gloomy knight, could be clearly distinguished, if he squinted just a bit more. However, before he even tried to sharpen his gaze, it fled.

Christian blinked, and looked again.

Nothing.

It must be one of night's most peevish tricks of bewildering men into insanity by its ability to hide everything and yet reveal anything. What one imagined, one would rather believe than deny its existence. Was that a ghost? Christian looked again, and shrugged when nothing more seemed to arouse his interest.

It was this moment of silence which petrified Christian as the front door of the chapel opened a slight crack. The invitation was a reluctant one, the portico leading an eerily quite entrance, and Christian's grip around the sword tightened evermore.

He took several swift steps towards the entrance, taking in the scene as a grand picture, eyes transfixed on the door, his gaze so intense that it nearly tore through the wood and into the chasm beyond. His ears, however, seemed to suffer from a serious malfunction no matter how hard he tried. The silence turned into a deafening buzz which consisted of nothing else other than the growing howls of wind from the heavens, the woods and from the mouth of the entrance.

As he ascended up the stairs and neared the door, it voluntarily opened fully with a loud, wicked groan. Christian took a step back, expecting the duke. However, nothing stirred, and he thought it'd be wise if he stayed swift but silent. Swallowing, and making sure that all his senses were alert by the din of liquid tearing through his thirsty throat like an amplified heartbeat, he withdrew his blade and slithered sideways through the doorway. He whirled around on instinct as darkness descended once again, heavier than the last. Mere croaking floorboards greeted him on his way forward.

At first, he walked as all people do in the dark. In the first experience of being a blind, one would lift up one leg, put it down, and be aware of the ascending, descending or hollows on the ground, stand firm--and repeat. Christian felt that it might take eternity for him to even proceed anywhere at all. It was unlike him to stay still and not make any movement at all, but that was the only option left. He sensed that making one more sound in here was one more possible chance of unveiling his location to the enemy. Albeit adroit at walking quietly, the risk was too great to take. Christian felt his temper rising, replacing the wariness for what was to come. He did not like waiting.

It was just at that moment, when the dilemma of whether to walk on or not tortured Christian like a grounded prisoner seeing a vast, green field ahead, but unable to step onto it. He hated the choices left, and yet--

"Welcome, sir," a masculine voice rang somewhere above--

--Ahead; or underneath, it was hard to tell for the first time. His ears have utterly been deprived of all senses of orientation of where the sounds were coming from after such a long silence. The duke's voice was always hollow and deceiving to him, and this time was just like any other. The echoes of the voice bounded across the vast court and wavered in the atrium, forming the impression that its owner is walking around.

Christian lifted his weapon, not responding to the terrible host. He is sure that the duke is now in front of him, that he believed in his sixth sense, advanced, and slashed out with a deadly force.


	6. Overcoming All Obstacles

To: The sugarfaerie--Aha! Not exactly _shining_ armor actually, this chapter is kinda dark. Sorry to burst your bubble but Christian, umm…technically saying, he doesn't need one!

Pamperedwitch--thank you for reviewing, I've got LOADS of details in this new update, I just couldn't help typing…finger-aches, probably…

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Christian's POV:

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I've done this too many times to miss. I could picture his blade bending underneath mine, the sheer force causing his wrist to ache. The strike would be an even deadlier one had it not been for the strength I spared for what might come unexpected in the dark. I waited for the collision which would hit my nerves in the next nanosecond, and the deafening scraping din of two blades gritting upon one another; one advancing, and the other one simply tilting towards the wrong side into space, or, if he got unlucky, straight into his own chest. My heart raced for the moment while my sword whipped through the air like a dagger through cheap cotton.

It sank lower and lower, until, for the first time, it realized its target was amiss.

I quickly withdrew, but avoided changing my poise, in case I made any unnecessary noise. I might have missed, but my instinct never fails; he's there in front of me, and whatever made him leer at my unsuccessful attempt was just luck and luck only. It won't be that way for long.

I made myself comfortable by remaining silent. It was haunting, the peace between two agitated swords. I felt the former hallucinations coming back at me. I tried to exhale through my mouth when I realized that my breath became shallower. Slowly, I begin to gain a sort of vision in the blinding darkness, as if a beam of light could be seen shining from the confidence inside of me. From here, I could sense my opponent's anxiety, building up gradually. We were in a position of stalemate.

We were even, in for an intense battle. But I could tell that he couldn't hold it in for a moment longer. It seemed now or never. We will collide eventually, if not the next second. Just like two currents joining to create a massive whirlpool, the tension was about to break out then and there--and this time, my instinct was right. It was then that my wrist made for that flick of the sword again, advanced, and met the other blade head-on.

I was met with a force greater than I predicted immediately. It was not my intention to change tactics halfway, so I decided to go with what I have.

Or, in other words, what I _don't_ have.

I let go most of my vigor in the strike and let my entire blade hang softly with my rival's instead. With my first blow strong enough to make his blade coil against the steel, my Viking Blade snaked its way up towards the duke. There are no rights or wrongs in the world of sword fighting. I could not have been more gentlemanly, for it would be cruel for me, had I shown the duke any mercy at all.

As my blade winded its way up towards its victim, it was met with a hard, metallic substance. Armored? I nearly snorted. Is this the man who had urged me to fight? I couldn't tell whether I was disgraced or merely marveling at my discovery. It could not have been easier to tire oneself out in such a battle than to bedazzle one with such caution. To fight means to throw yourself in one, not to wrap yourself up in armors. People can do that in a castle, not in a deserted chapel, blinded, with a fierce and determined enemy. But as far as he's armored, at least I know that I'm not the one afraid of dying over here.

He must've felt the tip of my blade making contact with his armor too; otherwise he wouldn't have instantly lifted his sword again. His second attempt was to no avail, except that I've had to miss the chance of knowing which sort of metal he chose for the shielding piece underneath his throat.

At this point, both of our swords were defiantly raised. I could feel the slight breeze sweeping over the side of my waist, somewhere far enough to cut through anything but me. Quickly adjusting my grip on the sword, I swiftly ran my weapon down his arm. If he was armored, then the only place that might be vulnerable with the most effortlessly of strikes--were the joints. Be it the throat, which I failed to get at with my second strike, or the wrists and the hand which I intend to sink my blade into, they were both hard to be shielded. Armors were not designed in a fashion to prevent our bones from working their best in a close combat like this. As I said before, I could not have been more gentlemanly. I would like to restate this for a second reason: If the duke had chose such a dark place for a fight, then it would be obvious that he had no intention to keep this a clean battle. I would not have cared less if blood were shed. Of course, not too much, not too little, and, of which I couldn't be more certain--_not mine_. Just enough to make him raise his hands and surrender would be good.

His attacking skills need to be more precise. For many stabs that followed, his attempt was futile. I began to hear his ragged breaths become heavier than mine, through his helmet, if he even has one on. I dared not try his head yet, because I never did so in a battle. It was not my style. I wouldn't have tried it also because of what he might do if I poke out his eye with the tip of my blade. I never knew whether my ancestors did it with this sword, but I am in no mood to try out such devilish acts. They were inhuman. Not that my try for the duke's throat was any less inhuman, but it was much easier for me to bear with later on. As much as I fought before, I would not want an eyeless man poking his head out in one of my dreams.

I prefer clean duels.

And that is why I tried to go for his throat again. The last time I aimed for his hand, his sword flipped over and tipped mine off just in time. I held a passive defense for the last few minutes, and waited for the armor to do its work for me. It was not before long until his moves slowed down slightly.

There were some scraps of planks on the floor which I found might come in handy, some of them with which I stepped on was during the basic defense or blocks I used against the duke's amazing-seeming but coincidentally boring tactics. I took heed in breathing, moving my legs around and feeling where the wood planks were scattered. All the time I was saving my energy, warming up, and wearing the dear duke down. I also found a wall to the left; where one of the planks bounced off whilst one of the duke's more not-so-boring tactics nearly caused me to lose my original, straight and elegant pose. Be it _that_ elegant or not, I could not tell, for I was in the dark. But something in the gloom made its way into my ears. It was the sound of a plank bouncing off the wall and onto the ground once again. It wasn't loud enough to catch the duke's attention, but it certainly caught mine.

The thought came to me at once and, for the first time in my duel record history, I faked a move.

I chose, at another one of his attempts to slay my belly, to gasp a horrifying, heart-wrenching gasp. It was incredibly real, even to my own ears. Had I not have been silent for the whole evening until now as if I were a mute, my voice wouldn't have sound so parched and thus so desperate, like the last sounds that came out of the warriors in deadly grand-scaled wars. I've taken it to the verge of believing the act myself and took several steps back, silently. The duke, not having heard a sound from anything except his own voice in this chapel tonight since the moment he stepped in, had practically been stunned by the gasp; not mentioning the echoes of it off the walls. I thought he cackled to himself somewhere in the dark, trying to find me once more, searching for his cornered victim who backed off, and picturing the prick of his blade into my abdomen.

Had he not have been so urgent in trying to kill me and took so many stabs in a row, he might've realized that the blade had not driven its way into my body just yet-- not even the slightest tip. I briefly moved my feet around to feel one of those planks on my side. Luckily, there was one right beside my left. I quickly made to kick the plank.

The timing was perfect. I could feel it pivoting with the push of my heel. It went soaring through the air with a whoosh that swept pleasantly over me, and crashed into the wall on my left. On _our_ left. It then followed the rule of physics and bounced at a certain angle, which I presume, vaguely to the duke's direction.

He was standing diagonally ahead of me to the left.

For the few seconds that followed, an eerie silence proved my plan has worked. The muted atmosphere accumulated into a buzzing noise, and in my mind's eye I saw the Duke turning to the wall where the bounce came from. It was the only location where the plank made contact with anything else except the soft material of my shoe. We were still locating each other by hearing in the dark, if any chances were available; and he was clever enough to sense that I made a horrible mistake. _Too_ clever, in fact.

Just as his confident steps took course away towards his left, I slowly raised my sword, walked firmly but noiselessly through the aisle of victory--and slashed out to the region which, I presume vaguely, to his left shoulder--somewhere near the throat.

Too bad the gloom was so intense; I could not see his face when he sensed that steel-cold breeze gushing over the back of his head like the currents of death. And such a shame it is to miss his gasp as well, for there were none.

Although as positive as I was about his declaring of relinquish, I was still surprised by the wary silence that greeted me. He _should _be wary of course, for I had not yet driven the blade into his shoulder. I nudged my sword inch by inch along his dark silhouette towards his throat. When he finally spoke, it was a deep, adamant voice, unlike the sissy tune that the duke preferred in his normal tone.

"Why the shame, sir, when you wish to drive the blade into my flesh?" He sensed it too, the concept of the cat toying with the mouse before the first lunge. The ability of being so calm alone had me raising a hundred cheers of accolade on the inside, though it did nothing to alleviate the animosity I felt for this bastard. I thought of Satine, and at that moment, _yes, why, I would really like to leave you here to rot, monsieur_ but--somehow, without knowing the slightest reason as to why I did so--decided against it.

"I know, the shame--it hurts, doesn't it?" I rapped my blade on his shoulder, hard and sound to keep him in yielding position. "Too bad the courtesan isn't here to watch you. You've been _brave_…working your sword with _determination_…it's a shame that none of them got to me, though, you could've killed me if you kept on practicing for what, a _decade_?" Rage built up in me and I suddenly felt a throb in my arm. As quick as lightning, my sword thrust itself into his shoulder, the force in my arms driving it lower and lower until a gasp came out of him. I thought I could see blood trickling out of his flesh and I thought I would laugh in mere joy of victory, but I couldn't. There was something in the cold air around this place that made me shiver. It oozed down my spine, and I could almost sense the hairs on my back standing as if all the ants in the world had suddenly decided to dwell in it. My suddenly clumsy hands took the sword to the strap round my waist, as the echoes of my words faded away into silence once more. He said nothing, and so I said none, too.

I guess I didn't have the chance too, for I was the one who stabbed him from the back and fled first down the descending portico, plummeting into the open night, desperate for fresh air, catching myself whispering a name over and over again: _this is all for Satine, for Satine, Satine, Satine…_ and back again--into the Moulin Rouge.

* * *

This is quite a dark chapter, as I have decided to change Christian's personality slightly. Well, it is for you to decide whether it seems natural or not, but I'd like to have a say in this also: He is angry, had been driven to the verge of desperation and/or insanity by jealousy and is given a chance to overcoming all obstacles. Having said that, I wouldn't mind changing the word "overcoming" into "destroying", would I? 


	7. ecstasy in heaven and this living hell

To:

The Sugarfaerie: Hey, sorry for not updating for so long! I've been busy with exams and stuff. I really don't know what to say about my new chapter, (sorry about it being a short one too), except that it's a turning point in the story.

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Satines POV:

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I was looking through everything in possible seizure distance within my view. Whilst there weren't a lot of places to search through, my plan of starting vertically down the first set of drawers proved that the contexts beyond the brass latch of the dull hued storages were much more than what was meant by appearance.

I was stunned the moment the drawer glided silently out of its shelter. It ghosted out until an awkward pause stopped it dead, which I found incredibly disturbing, as if something inside it is taking refuge there and does not want to be seen. When I peeked in, however, it turned out to be deeper than I'd have thought.

Besides fancy objects that were placed neatly into a peculiar order that seemed to stand out in the first column of drawers, as if they were once treasured by a young girl instead of a rich and snobbish duke, there were also queer objects contained in the furthest corner, where one wouldn't notice had it not been for my thoroughness. Those such as little candles that have not been lit yet, with dusts curving up its intricate spiral wax figure, were laid and piled up into a little mountain which nearly collapsed when I opened the drawer. I quickly reached out my other hand to steady them, only to find out another fancy figure next to it. Since I'd have a lot of time to spend and the drug is stirring its way well into the duke's stomach, I gave up to my curiosity and drew it out.

It was a little angel, with flaming red hair; such of reviving sparks in a pot of burnt ashes. But that was only its profile. I turned it around in my hand to discover a pale face, with a pair of beautiful eyes staring idly at me from a serene whirlpool of the clearest cerulean blue I have ever seen. Sparkles danced underneath its lazy, half-closed lashes when I turned it in different angles. The observation left me with a new finding, for this figure captivated me the instant I stared into its face. Why, it is almost a copy of me! I turned it sideways again and pulled it further to examine it. Except for the waist-length hair and its memorable imprint of the eyes that is a slight shade darker than mine, there are no other differences that I could tell. I don't recall me ever having a slight dimple on my cheek when I smiled, but now, however bizarre this sounds, it seems like I did.

Unable to fathom a proper supposition as to how the duke kept such a doll or as to why, I gently tucked it back to where it belonged. Shutting my eyes as I shoved the drawer back into its dark hollow, I told myself to get back on track instead of losing myself in unimportant objects. The glittering eyes seemed to tear through the drawer and lavish an oddly calm air around the room, which slowed me down considerably.

I quickly went through all of the drawers, all of them filled with things I haven't expected to be found in this sort of place. When I finally came upon something that held my interest, it was already late into the night.

It was in a drawer just like the others, except that within it there had been parchments. Rolls of thin parchments, probably one piece in each scroll, filed neatly in a row before me as I quietly inspected. I reached out my hand and found my fingers cold and sweaty, as I groped for one of them.

As I spread out the parchment on the floor, slowly and with extra care not to wrinkle its edges, a beautiful, cursive writing appeared. I read along the writings and found it to be rather formal. So much as the following I absorbed as my muscled tensed with each line I go down.

_…that, in other words, would bind future actress, Satine, to Duke Cyrille, shall the contract be complete._

I was nearing half the page when I realized that I haven't been able to take even one word in. It sounded like contract. It _is_ a contract. A contract with _me_ in the middle of all this. Knowing it all along that I was to be wooed by the Duke and should be happy for such opportunity to turn into a real actress was one thing, but watching it all unfold into solid words that hammers my future into such fragile paper made me wince.

…_The deeds of the Moulin Rouge shall be transferred as for required security means to Duke Cyrille…_

I glanced towards the bottom right of the scroll, where the names were signed. One was by Zidler, the other one indicating the same brat that lay on bed with unknown drugs dissolving into him. It suddenly felt absurdly painful to see Zidler's name come into this contract, like he's selling me out as if I'm a product, which, in some way, I am. I have always respected him deep down, though on the outside it only appears to be that we're always having fun with our own little entertainment. Shows, shows, always the shows. My world would be incomplete without the shows, but I don't really like the feeling of someone favoring the shows over me, even if it's beneficial for the both of us. Not to mention that it was someone whom I'd be willing to call my papa. We both gain and lose something in such contracts, but I felt drained rather than enriched in every way.

_…in order to transform the Moulin Rouge into an all modern theater…_

There were some lines underneath still, but I couldn't be bothered to read on. For me, the contract ended then and there. On the point, right on target--to transform the Moulin Rouge into a beautiful theater. Isn't that what we've always dreamt of? I thought of Christian and of his smile. His beautiful smile that lit up my hopes when I was down, that broke my heart when he said he believed me and promised to never get jealous. I took out a little something from the flap underneath my thin piece of clothing. A matchbox. A matchbox with lots of beautiful matches that'll enable me to brighten up my life a little bit. I didn't want to care about much, but, if one had to take away the only little something I want and not expect revenge, then he or she will be wrong. And this point is about to be made clear in a minute. I'll make it very, very clear.

One can also do really crazy things when one has nothing to lose.

In other words, I am to burn the contract, the mansion, and maybe spare the duke by drowning him in his bathtub first. Maybe I'll--

"So, very well prepared, I guess?" a voice growled from behind me. A chill ran up and down my spine several times before I had the guts to turn around and face whoever it was.

As unbelievable as it may seem, it was the duke's face that I saw. Clutching the scroll of contract with my chilled fingers, I knew there would be no need to explain. I did not plan on one, either. I just perched there, on the ground, staring at him and him at me, with a match in my other hand, threatening to fall onto the floor any time. I wanted to stand, but it seems like I cannot control my movements anymore. The duke's face turned into a terrifying shade of red and his eyes bulged, as he continued to glare at the courtesan who betrayed her most loyal customer. I did not make a sound during the whole minute that this stalemate progressed. _If_ it could even be called a stalemate at all. I could hardly breathe underneath his glower.

"WARNER!" he barked suddenly. I jumped and teetered on my toes, until my legs gave way and I ended up crashing into the wall behind me. I panted and tried to look for a way out, which seemed pointless when there was only one obvious outlet out of the room, and the manservant is actually charging _through_ it.

Hearing his master's call, the duke's manservant, Warner, strode ever speedily down the aisle and barged into the chamber. I gasped as he drew out a gun and pointed it directly in my face.

"YOU…YOU WHORE!" the duke yelled at me, his accusing finger pointing at me, "HOW DARE YOU TOUCH MY THINGS WITHOUT MY PERMISSION! YOU BLOODY, BLOODY WHORE! YOU THINK I DON'T KNOW WHAT YOU'RE UP TO, INVITING ME AT SUCH A SUSPICIOUS TIME? WHAT DO YOU TAKE ME FOR? HUH?" He huffed and he puffed those words as Warner continued to keep me still by the glistening revolver. And then, "DRAG HER DOWN TO THE DUNGEONS!" marked the ending of the scene.

I shivered. The _dungeons_? Oh, how foolish of me! Of course this isn't an ordinary mansion! It's inhabited by the cruelest person on earth! I grazed my teeth and shot him daggers, annoyed at the fact that I did not bring a dagger to kill him earlier instead. I have no idea what he's going to do to me, though nothing could be worse than a tough bullet into the head. I wondered what has gotten me into this situation, and came up with the conclusion that it was the sole existence of Christian that brought me step by step, into both ecstasy in heaven and this living hell. At that moment, the urge to shout out and get back at the monster in front of me in the most original form of communication finally exploded within me.

"DO WHATEVER YOU WANT TO DO WITH ME, YOU COWARD! YOU DON'T DESERVE TO BE LOVED OR EVEN LOVE IN ANY WAY, YOU SELF-CENTERED, SELFISH BRAT! YOU DON'T EVEN DESERVE A WHORE! EVEN _I _AM BETTER OFF BEING A WHORE THAN YOU BEING A STUPID, BRUTAL AND BRAINLESS DUKE FOR A HUNDRED--" I shouted at the top of my lungs, my whole body shaking with rage, until a loud din sounded and a bullet crashed its way into the ceiling right above me. I whimpered on the inside, and hated myself for that. But no matter what, or how bad the rest of this is going to get, I swear to myself that I will not shed even _one_ drop of tear, at least not in front of anyone.

I felt my senses go numb as I am dragged across the cold marble floor and into the dark, descending stairs that led to a cold, wet dungeon. I thought of struggling, to bite his hands and thrash around like a ten-year-old, in hope that he would let go of his iron grasp. He didn't. The manservant followed the duke's orders like a dog would to his master, and I thought about yelling that out for him to hear too, until I saw his fingers, clutching the revolvers trigger once more. I fell into a silent trance, imagining Christian at the bottom of the stairs, waiting to shove me into his arms and fly us way up high, into the Milky Way, where no one would give a damn.

My temporary daydream was shattered by the loud clang of a metal door frame, with a hollow hum that echoed through the dark, as we came to an abrupt stop in front of a dark cell, way below ground level. I was thrown in with a merciless force, almost enough to break my spines as I fell upon the protruding stones from underneath. The last bit of light faded away as the manservant marched away after locking up the little gate, leaving me in total darkness amongst the cold drip-drops of icy trickles down my bare, frosty toes.

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A/N: So, Satine has gone a little rougher than usual, and she thinks it's gonna be worth it! Let's pray that it stays that way, cause i still have some troubles deciding whether to let it end happy or sad, or both at the same time. I still think this chapter is a bit odd in every which way i look at it. I hope you guys can tell me what you think. There are always enough room for you to leave your precious comments every now and then just to make this story better, and I'd like to thank you beforehand for just reading this chappy too! Love ya--peace out!

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	8. Pain

To: The Sugarfaerie: I apologize for the late update. It's about college.

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"Is Satine with the Duke or something? We need to get her on with the rehearsals, Christian," Toulouse rushed over the front stage, zigzagging around screaming girls busy applying the last touch of blushes to their already too rosy cheeks.

Christian looked around the place. Everywhere he saw was untidy, but the atmosphere was very light-hearted. Though everything seemed ridiculously out of order, the set was indeed ready for the rehearsal in within fifteen minutes.

All that was left was Satine.

Christian needed her in a rather different way. He could do with or without the show, either way, he didn't care. But he liked rehearsing. Especially the 'Come What May' song. He liked that a lot.

"I'm going to ask someone, then," he answered Toulouse, getting up at once.

"Good, good, Christian, you better hurry!" Toulouse laughed as he teetered along his winding way over the bunch swarming before the stadium, "before someone gets the narcolepsy again--" and nearly tripped, still delighted about the big show bound for the next evening.

"Of course!" Christian shouted back, flying up the staircases leading to The Elephant. He ended up at the top of the stairs, face blushing from the heat.

"Satine, it's time for the big rehearsal!" He let himself in, grinning from ear to ear. The room smelt musty, as if the window hasn't been opened over the night, which hardly ever happened.

"She's not here," someone said from the windows. Looking up, Christian saw Satine's maid, dusting the windowpane. She had on her usual working suit, which was neat and tidy--and didn't seem to be busy about Satine's costumes at all. Not even a make up box was around.

"Where is Satine?"

"I said--she's not here." She didn't even bother to look up.

"Has she already gone to the set then?" Christian hoped he didn't sound impatient. He tried to be as polite as he could, though the grin was slowly fading from his face.

"Look," the maid smoothed over her working suit, lips pursed. "She went to meet up with the duke, so it's to see it get done with until it's your turn."

* * *

_The physician tried his best to rearrange the words in his head, to make everything sound simple and clear. Having dealt with many other cases, he had had experiences with many others whose dearest suffered from the same destructive disease. _

_They all like good news, the family and friends. When the bad ones struck, it should be reported tersely, and quick, before they have a chance to lie to themselves and say, with the evidence right in front of them, that 'it could not happen, not to my little' whomever was lying on the musty mattress, filled with the whiff of sickness._

"_I'm sorry," was all he could say. Packing up his case, he turned to leave._

_Quite unexpectedly, the man in front of the bed showed no immediate reaction. He simple sat there and stared, for how long the physician could not know, for all he knew was that when he turned to click the door shut, the plump man still sat as motionless as a statue._

_Madame heard Zidler whispering, "No…not to my little sparrow…"and shaking his head slowly, like an old man. She was not unaware of the truth all this time, but this was still too much for her to bear. A trickle of tears flowed down her cheeks, ruining her makeup, but she gave neither sob nor cry, and silently went out. The words that Zidler said still went about her mind, chanted like a mantra._

* * *

"Harold?"

The old man could not move an inch. Every inch of his body felt as numb as icicles; every limb as heavy as iron rods. He never felt as much sorrow as he did in the past few days. Some of it was for the show and the money, of course, but most of it was the underlying emptiness that would eventually surface when the image of the whole place without Satine's presence showed up in his mind.

"Harold; I think you'd better come, the evening cancan shows are 'bout to begin…" the Madame touched his shoulders, "I know it's hard, Harold, but the show must go on--we couldn't do without you."

"What about my little sparrow?" the voice was hollow, the previous enthusiasm gone.

"We'll find someone else to take her place, Harold, I'll take care 'bout that…the thing is, there's a bigger scene out there that needs your instructions right now; the boy…Christian…he's having a fit over the whereabouts of Satine."

For a moment, Zidler's eyes lit up. "Where's my little sparrow?"

"She's with the duke--_look out_," Madame reached for Zidler before he could trip over the stool, knees bending, trying hard to get up, "--at his place."

"With the duke?"

Harold Zidler recalled the evening that Satine complained about the freedom that would never come to her. _'The duke the duke it's ALWAYS THE DUKE!! Why, Harold, he's driving me crazy! I want to be with whomever I like!'_ Harold did not need to guess who she meant. Satine stopped herself before she could shout out one more word.

"Yes, _with the duke_, Harold, and the boy--_Christian_--seems to be having a problem about that. The maid was complaining to me just now about his attitudes-- seems like a very urgent rehearsal, that is," Madame went on breathlessly. A lot of things need to be arranged; Zidler just _had_ to come over.

* * *

When Zidler came, things were a little out of control.

Upon the bordello, bottled were smashed and alcohol gushed over the floor like bloody trails. Toulouse and the Argentinean stood behind Christian at several feet's distance, looking as if they've just came to the site of a disaster. The rest of the snooping cast clustered around the bottom of the stairs leading up to the bordello. Christian sat on the floor, his boots in the middle of the mess, dyed crimson by the liquid, his hands holding up his head, his knee supporting his elbow. Everything was still. Eerily still and quiet. He uttered not a single word when Harold Zidler came, stood in front of him, eyes measuring him up and down.

He never liked Christian much.

"Get up, boy," he said.

Christian swallowed. It sounded like something in between a gulp and a sign of annoyance.

"I said, GET UP, BOY!" Zidler barked. He never had anyone who was so indecent before. Not in front of him.

"That duke is a bastard," Christian breathed. The absinthe was making him feel a little dizzy, and he liked the way he was talking. He didn't have cruelty to push the blade further into the duke's shoulders, and now he shall suffer for being so kind.

"What?"

"Satine should be with me," Christian laughed out loud, his dissatisfaction available for the whole chamber to hear, "she enjoys me more than she does the duke, she does." Taking another gulp, he then tried to get up. His head felt heavy, though.

"Tell me where that moron of a duke lives, I want to find him." Christian lumbered over towards Zidler, his eyes suddenly lighting up with a ray of excitement.

"You're drunk."

"I AM NOT DRUNK!" Christian roared. _He said he would leave Satine if he loses the duel! If he doesn't learn the lesson until he dies, then I WILL have to kill him tonight!_ These words have been spinning around his head since after the night of the duel, but, the truth is, he'd never know whether he would have the brutality to do so. In some ways, the duke is all the while innocent. It is his business, and he has the power to do whatever he wishes, if Satine already agreed to the conditions, which is apparent, since she is now _with_ him. But to chain a woman--_one as lovely and lovable as Satine_--all to his own will is way over the limit. Christian could feel it in Satine's kisses, in her breathy whispers, that she loves him and him alone; nobody else. If this is merely an infatuation, well, let the magic live on! As long as they are still alive, they will love each other until every other thing blacks out into a mere dot in their show of affection for one another.

Christian looked around for a reason to keep him sane. There's none in view. Hehad to find her. "_TELL ME WHERE HE IS_!" he hollered.

"You're out of your mind, _Christian_!" Zidler spat. Now's not the time for silly boys to get drunk on the bordello for Satine, it's time that everything better goes well for Satine--for the show to go on! "_Or is it?" _Zidler caught him questioning himself. The tinge of guilt that failed to catch up with him earlier that evening blazed into a boisterous fireball in his chest. But this will have to do. There is surely nothing he could do to stop Satine from dying. Consumption is fatal. Soon the death of Satine will bring tears into this young man's eyes, no matter how drunken he gets. It wouldn't be long until wrinkles awake the ages that awaits the weary boy who had fallen so madly in love with his little sparrow. _Yes,__everything is for their best…_

"You don't belong with her."

Christian laughed. He laughed for a long, long time. "That's what everyone else says! What a coincidence! Everyone on this god-damn planet has to be against us! It makes things all the more worthy, doesn't it? The romance, I mean--oh, and the atmosphere," he nearly tripped. He heard someone chuckle on the far side down the aisle, where the bunch of nosy people stood watching his show of insanity. The sound came from a woman whose cackle was the driest he'd ever had the misfortune to hear. It sounded like nails scratching against a piece of burnt wood, similar to that of an amplified din of leeches sucking from the pores of the skin on one's head. Oh, how he missed Satine's voice!

Christian dropped the bottle in his grasp, the clatter of the glass as refreshing to his ears as the cold night air. He stumbled against some benches, snarled and shoved it away, and, picking his way through the now silent crowd, went for the exit. He's going to find her and…and they're going to leave this. This show, this crowd, this laughter, the useless absinthe, the nights of muffled kisses and sighs of the forbidden love, and the Moulin Rouge! He's going to take her to a place where there's just him and Satine and--

"She's dying, Christian!" Zidler blurted from behind. The sound echoed throughout the place. It no longer sounded like a proper holler. It was more of a croak, like a long-forgotten creature calling out from the dark.

"She's dying." The words seeped like poison into Christian's head.

Slowly, Christian turned around. "You're lying," he muttered, "You're all good, skilful liars."

Zidler shook his head in denial. "She has consumption," he continued difficultly, "it's what the doctor said."

It may be the crowd shifting around him, the incredulous gasps of the rest of the cast, the sniffs and sobs of the younger maidens…whatever the effect; it was all nothing compared to what Christian felt inside.

* * *

The universe is a galaxy of stars; of bright, dazzling, blinding ones; of dark, dwindling, fading ones. Some in between are lifeless: those becoming the dark holes of the unknown, others the motionless stones that lies in between, filling in the rest of space. Christian had many times in his life found himself describing woman's beauty in phrases that compares them to the brighter ones on the list, but never once, never, had he had the chance to depict them by the contrary.

The woman that he is in love with…is dying. Satine is becoming a black hole that will suck his life away if she ever goes.

He is not going to simmer himself over questions concerning the truth. He is not going to pour himself over the reliability of the source's information. He could sense the dread in Zidler, the dread that a rich man feels when he's about to be robbed penniless. _To him, Satine is just the most valuable source of income._ No, he's not going to ask too much about what the doctor said. Christian squeezed his eyes shut against the icy wind.

Outside the Moulin Rouge, the massive mill spins the minutes away into endless hours, as Christian strolled aimlessly down the streets of Paris. He remembered the first time he'd set eyes on the huge mechanic, wondering how in the world he is to fall in love and write down the best story ever: of how he came to meet Toulouse, the Argentinean and…Satine.

Christian felt his heart stop at the thought of her. Somehow, he's already reminiscing the past times as if she is dead. _The absinthe wasn't strong enough._ He badly needed something to soothe the pain. Something wrenched, snapping shut the valves of his heart's chamber as he thought of her yet again. He stumbled down the lane, clutching his chest as he did so. He felt sick to the pit of his stomach, but had never felt more than a few coughs rising to his half-opened mouth. He felt his way along one of the darker arcades, his head threatening to explode. He had no sensation whatsoever. Hot and cold were exactly the same to him. There is only one sensation left.

Pain. Lots of pain.

When his legs finally gave away, Christian landed hard onto the stony portico of a dark alleyway. All his strength left him altogether, pulling something deep from him away at the same time. He gagged like a choking gargoyle, and, as if being flung from a cliff, felt the most agonizing blow against his chest from some invisible force.

A howl tore open the night. It was a howl of sheer pain, an unmistakable pain from the heart.

Christian did not feel relieved. The pain was accumulating and was weighing him down. He couldn't move. Not an inch. He simply crouched in the dark and sobbed. No one came by; they were all busy in this part of the night, enjoying, drinking. Every sob was as uncontrollable as the one that followed, and Christian could only do so much as to clench his fist tight and let the tears run free. When the pain was too much to bear, he was silent.

* * *

A/N: If I am to finish what I thought I was _going_ to finish in this chapter, the length would be too long compared to the rest of my chapters. I like the length of this chapter. Full stop. 


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